100 Days Sober

There.  Did it.  Now I can shut down this indulgent crap and get on with life.

Now I am well rested, calm and able to reflect with a measure of sobriety, I am sad to the point of tears.  It is such a fucking shame I was a stumbling drunk for so many years.

The chances I let slip, the opportunities I worked so hard for to sweep away with a drunken flick of my wrist, the friends I embarrassed and shamed who quietly faded away, the precious moments I sullied with my red faced drunken presence.  Treating life like it was some cheap fucking experiment.

Starting things with clear headed good intentions and inevitably failing with foggy hangovers.

Devising amazing drunken schemes and plans, only to wake up to a pad full of unintelligible scribble.

And resolutely defending alcohol to the death.  It was never the alcohol, it was – it was always something else.
 

Now, at 100 days, looking back it seems such a fucking waste.  An angry, pointless waste of everyone’s time and potential.  Sticking my finger up at the world.

Completely utterly spent.  Now I am just cruising on this lighter than air sensation that it doesn’t matter so long as I don’t drink and everything is just fucking rosy.